


Gifting Harry

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 17:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16391783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: Harry is off to Little Whingeing to see his (ick!) blood relatives for a few days on a family matter and Draco uses the time to go stealth-shopping.





	Gifting Harry

Author: [](https://tigersilver.livejournal.com/profile)[ **tigersilver**](https://tigersilver.livejournal.com/)  

Title: ‘Gifting Harry’

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 9,500+/-

Warnings: AU,  _not_ Epilogue-compliant in any way, Reformed!Dursleys, tooth-rotting Fluff!Fic, mentions of wanking and a snog.

Summary: Harry is off to Little Whingeing to see his (ick!) blood relatives for a few days on a family matter and Draco uses the time to go stealth-shopping.  

Author’s Notes: This fic is, in part, inspired by and grateful to, the existence of [](https://dysonrules.livejournal.com/profile)[ **dysonrules**](https://dysonrules.livejournal.com/) wonderful Valentine’s work, ‘The Brick’. Thank you, love! I am UR eternal fan! Beta’d by my lovely [](https://lonerofthepack.livejournal.com/profile)[](https://lonerofthepack.livejournal.com/) **lonerofthepack**  .   
  
Disclaimer: This piece of art or fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended. All characters depicted in sexual situations are above the age of consent.

 

 _Some people talk of morality, and some of religion, but give me a little snug property._ Maria Edgeworth

 

z

“No.” It was decisive and sharp, though Draco Malfoy had the grace to smile kindly at the jeweller as he said it. “I rather wanted something more…subtle, sorry.”

He rose to his feet and nodded at the shopkeeper’s well-disguised disappointment, preparing to depart.

“I do apologize, M’sieur,” Grampion Senior of Mssrs. Grampion, Patewell and Cockfirth bowed his balding head. “I’ll keep your, er, particular needs in mind as my son and I acquire stock, these next few weeks.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grampion; I do appreciate it,” Draco replied sedately, over his shoulder, on his way out the discreet plate glass door that opened onto a sheet of dull grey rain, which had overtaken London’s Wizarding sector like clockwork. Draco had noticed recently that precipitation always seemed to attach itself to his shopping, rendering the painfully unrewarding process only that much more difficult. “Send me an Owl if you do find anything worthwhile, please. My thanks in advance, sir, and a good day to you, I hope," he added graciously. He cast an aversion spell to ward off the eternal precipitation and was off at a sleek prowl, to the next shop on his list. The slosh of his boots through the puddles was irksome, but then many things had proved irksome, these last few days. 

Potter, thus far, was proving a damnably difficult chap to buy for.

z

Harry, against all odds and former expectations, was presently at the Dursley’s, though he’d sworn up and down at one time never to darken the door of No. 4 Privet Drive again in his lifetime. Further, he was conversing with his crotchety Aunt Petunia and his overlarge bully of a cousin Dudley at the breakfast table, and it was purely amicable.

“We’ve the attic yet to sort out; don’t forget now, Harry, Duddikins,” Petunia fretted, fiddling with her buttered crumpet. Kreacher had come with, and was handling food preparation and cleaning, tasks Harry was glad to be shed of, not that his aunt would ever expect him to do them, now. Not that his blood relatives would—at this point—dare punish him for  _not_ , either. That had all died with Uncle Vernon, thank Merlin. Still, he hated the Dursley’s kitchen with a passion rivaling what he’d felt for that git Malfoy, years past. The scarred Formica counters left him feeling ill; the aging coolbox was a reoccurring nightmare, filled with ancient visions of foodstuffs he’d not been allowed to eat.

“Yes, Mum,” Dudders agreed, drawing Harry back from the horrid past with a mental thump-and-a-skid. “And there’s the basement, too, yet. S’a bit of a mess down there. All cobwebby,” he shuddered. “Harry,” he added tentatively, poking a finger at the crusts of his toast, “d’you think you could magick the stairwells wider for me? Shoulders, you know,” Dudley shrugged them dismissively and glanced down at his impressive mass. “I’m a few stone heavier than you, wimp.”

Harry struggled mightily for a moment, and managed to swallow back his cheeky smirk; one that would've earned him a few painful wallops back in the day. Dudders hadn’t changed  _at all_ , at least not physically, and still loomed huge and beefy, as Uncle Vernon had, back in his prime. Harry turned his eyes to his cousin, noting all the many resemblances, and nodded his ready acquiescence to the request, glad again that death and senseless destruction—or at least the little of it Dudders had witnessed--had wrought a sea-change upon the attitude of his oafish cuz. Though mayhap it hadn’t been that, at all. Perhaps—just perhaps—Dudders had soft, hidden, marshmallowy bits that he’d previously allowed no one to see, not even his family. After all, Harry mused, look at all the hidden depths Malfoy had, yet, and there were more, likely, that Harry’d not had the chance to plumb and examine in detail.

Harry—though he knew he shouldn’t be, by now; that it was perhaps just a bit naïf--was perpetually surprised by what huge secrets all the most familiar people kept tucked away, even those persons he’d believed he'd fairly well sorted, or those who’d never come across as particularly deep to begin with. One only had to consider, for example, his Aunt Petunia.

“Sure,” he replied, equably enough, shrugging. “But, you know, it’ll be easier if I handle the attic, I think. You’ll knock your head on the rafters something fierce, Duds. It’s terribly close up there and I’m the shorter.”

“Do,” Petunia chimed in, fretfully. Her hands were always in motion these days—nervous, unhappy. She frowned at her still-folded napkin. “Oh,  _do_ , please, Harry--I think there’s…things of yours. Still. Of your—your parents; your father’s.” Repugnance permeated the last two words; Harry shivered at it, involuntarily. “Mumsy—well, Mumsy had Da drag all the boxes up there after—after the Accident.“

Petunia swallowed, blinking rapidly over her teacup, her throat aged and crepey, her now more than prominent Adam’s apple bobbing along distended tendon. She was painfully thin and boney, twelve years after the end of the War. And terribly aged for one even of her short Muggle years, what with the looming spectre of leaving Privet Drive forever behind. Harry smiled at her gently, mindful of her anguish, though he’d no issue whatsoever with having No. 4 forever Vanished from his life. It disguised his faint frisson of shock, as well.

He’d things yet?  _More_  things? His Muggle grandparents had saved him  _Potter_ things?

“Mum, er...Mum, maybe...” Dudley opened his mouth in the uneasy pause, and then halted, his face screwing up in a supremely uncomfortable grimace. Oh, gods! Harry thought, only barely heeding his cousin’s faltering, for he was overwhelmed suddenly with déjà vue—dizzy, even, at the very idea of yet more  _things_ he could call his own _._

“I thought you’d handed over all that, Auntie,” Harry asked carefully, when he’d his voice under control once more. He cradled his fidgety little floral-painted teacup carefully and eyed a minute chip in the gold-plated rim. “Years ago. Erm, after Uncle Vernon…” He let his voice trail off, and exchanged a quick speaking glance with his cousin. There’d been a peace of sorts forged, when Uncle Vernon kicked the proverbial bucket, in large part due to Dudders, who wasn’t nearly as dense and dreadfully stupid as he seemed, as it turned out.

No, no, he  _wasn’t_ ; not really. Harry had forged a deep respect for the ex-Slytherin Witch Millicent Bulstode. They’d not have been Bonded, she and Dudley, these last four years, if she’d found Harry’s hulking cuz to be  _that_  lacking, old maid issues aside. Millie was no one’s fool; had never been. But still, Harry had been given over rightful possession of his parent’s school trunks and the trunklet that contained his baby things ages ago, right after the War ended, and he’d thought that was all there was to it.

Draco had descended upon the Dursleys like an avenging Thor and had a bloody fucking fit in the middle of the parlour, demanding them, and had ultimately had the right of it, in his suspicions there were still important tidbits the Dursleys were hiding from Harry. And all-out war had ensued, but when the dust had settled, Harry had a past again.

There’d been more than he’d ever, ever expected, or dared hope for, all packed away in yellowing tissue and lavender paper, and he and Draco had spent hours sorting through it. Photos, Wizarding and Muggle, taken by fond parents and doting grandparents; tiny rattles and chewed-over teething rings, monogrammed and store-bought, depending upon who’d given them; tinier-than-a-fleeting-minute clothing, for the smallish infant he’d once been. Toys, made of wood and brightly painted; yet more playthings, infused with magic, with Charms still functioning after all this time. Toys, cast in plastic—a telephone that still jangled; a ride-about. Wizarding jacks-and-straws, still in their original packet, and Muggle Meccano miniature autos, saved by an anxious mother who hadn’t wanted to risk her beloved son choking.

The list went on: denim overalls in size zero; the Potter’s ancestral christening robes, Victorian-era, fragile and bedecked with an unfortunate lot of lace and ruffling, which he’d worn—and spit up on thrice during the hour at the font, according his grumbling aunt—three months after his birth. His mother’s rings; his father’s last racing broom. A heaping treasure trove of memories, all kept safe, and nearly lost to bland obscurity, if it hadn’t been for Vernon’s fortunate and ever-so-timely death of apoplexy and Dudders unrelenting championing of one Harry Potter, the-not-so-bad-sort.

Pestering Harry, too, to let bygones be bygones. For Aunt Petunia’s sake; for his own—for Millie, who was a great believer in blood bonds and familial ties, no matter how thin or dilute. And Harry hadn’t, in the end, been all that averse, ‘specially not with Draco perpetually haranguing his ear about the importance of family day in and day out. Being a bloody pain in the arse about it all, really. 

Harry shrugged, not knowing what to say at the possibility of yet more of his own past. It amazed him, he was so used to having none of it.

Aunt Petunia wrenched her hand from her shredded bits of crumpet and laid her wrinkled fingers, still buttery, on Harry’s wrist, ever so gently. She was still shy of actually touching him; would always be, likely, but then again, considering he’d learned to expect no affection from his aunt eons ago, even this light, slightly frantic moth-wing brush of skin to skin was a vast improvement. He tried not to flinch.

“No!” she exclaimed, more strongly, animated now. ‘No, Harry,  _you_  have to do it. You have to be the one,” she insisted. “There’s… _things,”_  shewent on, her voice oddly urgent. “Still. In the very back end of the attic, packed away in boxes back by the Christmas ornaments, Harry. Look there, will you? Please? Drag them out—take them away with you?”

“Of course I will, Aunt; don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” Harry smiled, and dared lay his own fingertips oh-so-lightly over her pruney ones, petting them. She twitched, faintly, and then smiled once more, a shadowy cloud of what looked to be a genuine sort of affection crossing her pinched features like a hawk's shadow. Dudders cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the overall weirdness of the moment. This was not at all what they were used to; it had to be learnt slowly.

“Yeah, well,” he said, scraping back his chair and bolting his last piece of toast. “We should be moving on with it, eh, Harry? Clear this mess up, Mum, we will.”

“On it,” Harry agreed and shoved his own chair back over the linoleum. “Straight away, Auntie.”

Petunia smiled yet again, and for a second Harry caught the barest glimpse of what she’d been once, years upon years ago—young, fresh; bright, eager. Loving and fond. Like Lily, his own mum. Like his maternal grandmother, whose aged image had been captured in the fading Muggle photos, her eyes as brilliant green as his mother’s—as his own. A remarkable triad of women, his mum, aunt and grandmother, when all was said and done.

Harry grinned, nodding for no real reason. He felt a degree of gratitude to Petunia now, for taking him in, no matter what Draco said about child abuse. He was alive, was he not? And Tom Riddle was dead. Permanently. There'd been a good end to it, after all. 

“Thank you, Harry,” his aunt allowed, voice grudging the syllables, but the goodwill was still evident. She stared at the crumbs on the tablecloth once more, regarding her crumpet with a minatory eye. “It’ll be a—a weight gone.”

“Yeah.” He grinned a bit, and cuffed his cousin’s wide shoulder in passing. “Come on, Duddikins. Move it, you great lummox. Work calls to be done.”

z

“I don’t think so, sorry,” Draco said judiciously, examining the item presented at all angles. “It’s not…quite what I was looking for, now that I’m seeing it properly.”

“No?” The shopkeeper was clearly disappointed. “I’ve others, Mister Malfoy. Perhaps one of them—“

“No, really,” Draco interrupted. “On second thought, I don’t think this is at all what I wanted. Not at all.”

“Oh, no!” the shopkeeper protested, backpedaling immediately. He ducked his head, evidently silently deprecating his miserable selection of wares and his poorly stocked shop. “Understandable, Mister Malfoy. Fully understandable—laudable, even, if I may be so bold as to say so. You’ll be in need of something very special, considering the gentleman you’re buying for,” he added, eagerly. “I only wish we might’ve—“

Draco adjusted his short, summer-weight robes as he rose and nodded sharply. “Precisely.” 

 z

Harry stared and rocked back on his heels in shock. There were stacks and stacks of them; tiny pasteboard boxes, the size of ice cubes, piled up in neat rows in a larger crate, which was tucked in the farthest, most cramped corner of the boiling hot attic. And there was more than the one crate: there were at least five he could count, and perhaps more nestled behind that.

He opened the first rectangular packet—no bigger than a jeweller’s case, really—and murmured ‘Engorgio’ softly over it, not quite knowing what to expect from the shadowy contents of the dark interior. There was a huge billow of dust and purple-blue sparks, enough that Harry had a fleeting fear he’d set the house afire. And then a bloody harpsichord was taking up all the available floor space, elegantly elbowing aside the Dursley family’s much less costly keepsakes and assorted old rubbish.

“What?” Harry breathed, coughing a bit in the cloudy air. “ _What_?” He repeated, utterly bollixed. He’d never expected  _furniture_ , and certainly not such fine antique example of it—why had this gorgeous piece of inlaid parquetry and carefully honed quill never graced Petunia’s parlour? Of course, it was far more suitable for the Manor, but Harry couldn’t imagine that his aunt hadn’t hankered after it for herself.

“Er?” he said again, to no one, really.

The steps creaked ominously and the very aunt in question appeared like a ancient Jack-in-the-Box. Her grey head poked up, her thinning hair drawn back in a neat, fussy bun. She peered through the falling motes of disturbed dust and caught sight of the grand musical instrument that had literally shoved Harry nearly to the top of the steep stairwell. 

“It’s lovely, isn’t it, Harry?” She sounded quite enthused, for someone who hadn't had a harpsichord in her attic thirty seconds ago. 

“ _Yes_!” Harry regained his feet, best as he was able. The harpsichord was not small at all. There was a bench, as well, with fiddly carved legs. “But—what? Where's this come from, Aunt?”

“It’s the Potter’s, of course,” Petunia replied tartly, more of her emerging as she climbed the remainder of the narrow steps. She laid a gentle hand on the ivories and a faint, quavery chord sounded, echoing. “Your father—may he rest in peace, the scoundrel—he brought them over, when the Place was sold up. They’ve been here ever since, taking up our attic.”

‘These—these are my  _father’s_?” Harry was aghast, so much so he staggered just a bit, knocking against another crate. There were, indeed, more stacked precariously behind it. “ _My_ father’s? My  _Potter_ grandparent’s house?”

“Yes, yes, Harry.” Petunia answered querulously, a frown gathering at the corners of her lined forehead, and snatched her hand back from the musical instrument’s keyboard, as if it had bitten her. “That’s just what I’m telling you. The Potter’s things. Been here ever so long, they have—a whole houseful’s worth. Likely a fortune in antiques, too, though you likely won’t need  _that_ , what with your chap about.”

“Aunt Petunia!” Harry’s mouth was working soundlessly; he didn’t know what to say—how to react. “Aunt Petunia!” A whole houseful of memories— _Potter_ memories— _Potter_  things! And all  _his_ —all here! It didn’t bear thinking of—he’d never even considered the like!

“Draco!” he gasped, stumbling a bit as he tried to move around the harpisichord. He took an abortive step toward the stairs, which were squarely blocked by Aunt Petunia. “I’ve got to Owl him!”

“Blood Magic, Harry,” his aunt went on, oblivious to his shock, and the distaste was clear in her voice even as she again reached out tentatively and ran a careful fingertip over the perfectly preserved black lacquer of the harpsichord’s lid. “That’s what that odd Headmaster fellow at the school of yours said to me, after—after you came--and not to touch them, of course. Not for the likes of us, naturally.” The ancient resentment rang clear in her querulous voice. 'Not that I would, ever."  

“Ngh!” Harry was rendered quite mute by that revelation. The room swam suddenly around him, going black around the edges, and terribly hot and humid. He reeled, and put his hands to his head, which felt full and stuffy. “I—I!”

“Harry!” Petunia said sharply, finally noticing his state and condition. Her petulant cry was an insistent buzzsaw sound, a long way off. “Pull yourself together, Harry!  _Harry_!”

 z

Draco fiddled with his glass, drawing a long, pale finger down the accumulated droplets of condensation. The Muggle club’s bar mirror reflected a faintly frowning but very aristocratic set of features, all beetled blond brows drawn together, lips thinned in bitten-back ire, fine grey eyes narrowed menacingly and a face sporting the distinct air of dissatisfaction he felt with his lot: Draco Malfoy missed Harry Potter most fiercely and it had been barely forty-eight hours since he’d seen him last, fidgeting about in the foyer of the Manor, preparatory to Apparating off to Surrey.

But there was more to it than simply that, as irksome as it was to be left  _without Potter_.

He’d thought to take advantage of Harry’s short, planned absence to procure the perfect present for Harry’s upcoming all-important thirtieth birthday. He’d consulted with the Weasel-Granger coterie and Harry’s other assorted Gryffindork mates on the sly, and had Floo’d off to Diagon yesterday, first thing, with a clear goal in mind: something small, and of course costly; something rare, unique, meaningful and symbolic. A one-of-a-kind, just like Harry.

Perhaps it might be something Harry could wear on hs person, such as an emerald ring, or a ruby and gold necklet, or maybe an item he’d always coveted (p’rhaps one of Krum’s limited-edition, hand autographed line of racing broom models, which were terribly dear?) but would never purchase for himself, being the oddly frugal sort. Whatever it might be, Draco had been fairly sure he could find a gift his lover would fulsomely thank him for, in words and actions; Harry had always adored presents and was always at his most adorable when presented with them. Very taken aback, of course, but adorable, nonetheless. 

Draco’s frown gathered substantiality. He didn’t like it at all that Harry never seemed to expect much of him, no matter the occasion. It went against the grain, when he’d so much to give, materially and otherwise. But then, that was Potter, simply being innately difficult.

Draco heaved a forlorn sigh, and took a long draw of his dry martini. He glowered at his face in the cloudy mirror, frightening away the hovering barman. Difficult or not, he missed the little prick. His stupid chest was aching with it.

This day had been a total loss thus far, as had yesterday, and he wondered desperately what Harry was doing as he sat here in the hallowed halls of Muggledom, kicking his heels, brought to an utter standstill. But it wouldn’t do to pop in at No. 4 without notice; he and that horrid Petunia woman were perpetually at daggers drawn after the Incident, and Harry wouldn’t appreciate the additional tension engendered by a surprise visit.

Oh, but it all seemed bloody hopeless and dreary, what with the eternal English rain, and the solitary dinner and cold bed he had to look forward to that evening, and the fact he’d found nothing yet to satisfy him, not in all the shops in Diagon. Perhaps he'd try Paris, then?

“Draco, old sod! Fancy running into  _you,_ here!”

Startled into a defensive snarl, Draco spun on his leather-covered stool like a dervish, hand already curled instinctively to his wand butt, his glass shoved aside with a tinkling clatter of ice crystals.

“ _What_!?” he growled. “Who dares?”

“”By all that’s sacred to Salazar, Draco,” the laughing voice exclaimed, and a wide and ingenuous smile split a café au lait-complected face into a mocking mask. “Whatever  _are_  you  _doing_ , hobnobbing with the Muggles?”

z

 

“He brought them all, your father,” Aunt Petunia was saying, and Harry, still a bit woozy, tried to pay attention. He scrambled up from where Dudders must have laid him: the ghastly floral-printed sofa his aunt was so fond of. He’d the feeling his aunt wasn’t likely to be speaking of these events again, any time soon. “All these tiny little boxes, crates upon crates of them; I've never seen the like, Harry. They were simply everywhere!”

“You alright, Harry?” Dudders tapped his shoulder anxiously. Meant to be a solicitous pat, it nearly knocked him sideways on the ancient parlour sofa. The yellowing plastic creaked under him, developing hairline cracks."Feeling a bit better now?" 

“Oh! Oh, yeah, Dudley,” Harry said quickly. “I’m fine, fine.  _Really_.”

“Want some water?”

“No! No, I’m good, Dudders. S’alright. Aunt Petunia, you were saying?”

“Well…” she grimaced, “Da was of course wanting to help as best as he could—always a big-hearted fool, he was, and of course  _your father_ , Harry, he was a charming young scoundrel,  _he_  was—taking advantage of Mum and Da, as usual.“

“So I’ve been told,” Harry murmured. "That he was charming, I meant. My father." He grinned, but bit it back hastily when his aunt glared at him.

“And it was all carted up to the attic in the end, never mind that it was  _our_  house, mine and Vernon’s, but of course Lily and  _your_  father—“ Aunt Petunia, Harry had noticed, never referred to his father by given name—“were terribly unsettled at the time; what with that Lord Voldemort fellow after them, Lily said.”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia, he was,” Harry allowed, and wondered what it had been like for his parents, with a child on the way, and no home of their own to call  _safe_. “For absolute ages. There was a prophecy. Um, go on, do.”

“And though Vernon and I  _most_  strongly objected, Mum and Da insisted we keep them.” Harry could practically see that little contretemps unfolding amongst his Muggle relatives, given his mother’s ginger-maned temper and his Muggle grandparent’s stubbornness, Uncle Vernon’s hatred and fury and Aunt Petunia’s propensity to whinge and flail. He’d learnt so much about them all, recently, as Petunia, in the face of leaving her home, had finally begun to speak of those long bygone days of his childhood and the horrible excitements that had pockmarked them. “So here they were,” Petunia muttered, “and here they stayed ever after, taking up all  _our_  attic space, and us in this lovely house, all of it new and neat except  _their_ oldrubbish, and then off they scarpered, the two of them, without a care in the world about leaving it all dumped on our doorstep. Tch!”

“Oh, but—“ Harry stifled himself instantaneously. No doubt to his aunt it had seemed that way. Lily Evans Potter had always lived an exciting life, and Petunia had been jealous of that even when it had been proved deadly dangerous.

“And had the cheek to leave the whole lot here," Petunia was going on, "all these things, with never a word to send for them after they moved to that dreadful little cottage of theirs in that Fredrec’s Hole village—“

“Godric’s Hollow, Aunt,” Harry muttered, but she made no move to correct her mistake and he let it go.

“And then, the next thing I hear, is—they’re murdered, and you, Harry, you’re—“

“Mum, you’re breathing a bit quickly there,” Dudley interrupted, frowning, and got up off his cushion rather quickly for a man of his weight, heading off to the kitchen. “Might be an attack--where’s your inhaler, Mum? Where’d you leave it?” His voice carried back from the kitchen and Harry cocked a weather eye at his elderly relative.

She  _was_  a bit pasty, and panting. Not good, then. 

“Oh, Duddikins, never mind that!” his mum answered peevishly, waving off the matter impatiently. She gasped. “I’m just telling Harry here—telling Harry—“

“No—Dudley’s the right of it, Aunt Petunia,” Harry replied, increasingly anxious over the hitch in her reedy voice. “Accio Aunt Petunia’s inhaler!” he cried, and the white Muggle medical device zipped in from the front hall tree, where she’d left it in her cardigan pocket, from when they’d returned earlier from the morning’s shopping.

“Here, Aunt; take deep breaths now,” Harry was over to her in a flash, brandishing the medicine for her chronic asthma, pressing it upon her. “Take it very easy, alright? Lie back slowly, now.” He plumped the pillows behind her head and turned to his cousin, hovering heavily just off port, and hissed: “Go find that glass of water you offered me, will you, Dud? I think she could use it more than I. And Floo Millie, will you? She’ll know what to do.”

z

“Slumming, Draco? That’s not your usual style—Potter’s influence, I dare ask?”

“Hardly, Zabini,” Draco sneered. “Do be off and stuff yourself in some appropriately dank hole, will you? I didn’t ask for your company.” This ‘slumming’ slur of Zabini’s was, however, quite correct, though  _he’d_ not call it that; he’d interests in Muggle business now, and he and Harry had frequented Muggle London and other cities the first few years of their relationship, purely for the exquisite absence of Wizarding paparazzi. Now he was comfortable in its environs, and had even taken up a membership in a few select clubs.

“You belong here?” he shot back, raising a disbelieving eyebrow at the dapper man lounging next to him. It required rather considerable influence to join a club that had been in existence for over three hundred years, steadfastly the quiet retreat of landed gentlemen for every one of those days of lingering cigar-smoke and long-winded billiard matches, heedless of suffragettes, fashionable watering holes, and politicks.

“Hardly,” Blaise’s turn to sneer. “Pansy’s Squib uncle tendered me an invite. He's a bloody Lord. I drop by when I’m in the neighborhood.”

“Ah,” Draco replied, and resigned himself to the fine art of catching up with an ex-Slytherin. He’d not seen hide nor hair or Blaise since the wedding, and Pans had practically blacklisted him for daring to cavort with Potter at the lavish reception after. An uneasy truce had been forged in the years since, but they were by no means as close as they’d once been and Draco, truthfully, hadn’t regretted it. One always knew where one stood with a Gryffindor, that was certain, and he’d not had the patience for head games since the war.

“Spawned progs yet?”

With that verbal sally, the mutual battle to extricate the most useful gen whilst giving up the least of same commenced: typical Slytherin gossip-mongering.

z

“There, now,” Millie said comfortably. “You’ll be alright then, Mum.”

Aunt Petunia was ensconced in her own bed, clad in a floral nightshift and provided with a lap tray. Her inhaler stood at the ready and Millie had brought along several Potions Wizarding folk used regularly for asthmatics as well.  A Muggle doctor had already been and gone.

“Oh, thank you, Millicent,” Petunia replied, her eyelids drooping. “But you mustn’t fuss over me. Duddikins, sweet, do tell Millie to go back to that odd hospital of hers, will you? It’s only just a spell I'm having; I’m sure I’ll be up and about in two shakes.”

“Mmm, yes, Mum,” Dudley patted his mother’s narrow shoulder and sent a speaking glance Harry’s way. “Good on you.”

Harry watched her carefully as she slid limply into sleep, and felt an odd surge of fondness for her, a tenderness that quite took him back a bit.

 His aunt was so terribly prickly; had always been, and let so few people into that stunted heart of hers, but those she did were loved unconditionally—like Dudders, and these last few years her daughter-in-law, the Witch Millicent Bulstrode. It was vaguely heartwarming, in a very odd way, Harry decided, and hoped abruptly and fiercely his aunt  _would_  recover. He’d hated her—Merlin,  _how_ he’d hated her—for abandoning him to the evil clutches of Uncle Vernon, and for all her intentional petty cruelties through the long years he’d been prisoner here at No. 4, but perhaps…just perhaps, she’d simply been afraid to care for him, for fear he’d be taken away in the end, just as her adored younger sister had.

Strange conclusion at which to to arrive, yes, but Millicent, who was an ex-Slytherin, had suggested much the same, obliquely. And as to Uncle Vernon? Well, he’d been just simply too ghastly for words and good riddance to bad rubbish; should’ve been strangled at birth, the rotter. But he’d thankfully passed on now, done in by his own perpetual apoplexy, and was no longer able to spew venom at either Harry  _or_  Petunia…and his aunt was at last on her own, free to make her own decisions about what she liked or didn’t.

It seemed that perhaps she’d not despised her nephew quite to the degree he’d always believed she had.

Millie had had a Wizarding Healer look in on her, as well, over from St. Mungo’s, and he’d pronounced her condition curable, likely, with rest and care. Much of her chronic illness was stress-related, brought about by the plan to sell up No 4 and, too, simply the expected Muggle wear-and-tear on her body. She was old before her time, was poor Petunia, and as attached to her home as the Giant Squid to its Lake. Though all of them had agreed the upkeep was beyond her now, and she’d do better bunking with Dudders and Millie in their recently purchased cottage in the Cotswolds, it was still a huge wrench for Harry’s aunt, leaving Little Whingeing.

So much history; so many memories, all stuffed into four walls and a pocket-handkerchief sized lawn. And Petunia was incredibly house-proud, and had dug her gingham-checked and floral-print roots deep into the barren soil.

Harry sighed, and dimmed the Muggle lamps with a wave of his hand, wondering what that was like, feeling house-proud. It wasn’t an emotion he could understand all that easily, never having really had one he could call his own. Grimmauld, after all, was still first Sirius’s and after that, the home of the Order, when it had existed. Draco did, though. Perhaps he’d ask, one day. 

z

“You’re out and about gallivanting to purchase a gift for your pet Potter, then?”

Draco sent a razor-sharp glower at Zabini. The air between them practically crackled.

“You have such an apt turn of phrase at your command, Blaise. No wonder you rely solely on your face to sustain you.”

Blaise chortled discreetly and then sipped daintily at his Cosmo. “Ah, there is that! But then, it’s the fortune my mother left me, isn’t it? I can spend it any way I so choose, Draco. Speaking of, what were you looking to spend on your paramour? Is money no object?”

Draco was growing weary of this pointless badinage. He’d tasks left to complete yet, and this visit to the club had been meant as a way of recharging his spirits, literally and figuratively. Zabini was developing into a major roadblock in his planned path for the remainder of the day: pop over to Wizarding Paris after a solitary luncheon at the club and see what wonderful rare items might be purchasable for a buyer of his wealth. Barring that, there was New York City’s Wizarding shopping district, the largest, most diverse conglomeration of unusual magical items in the world. He could could Portkey there, if needs must. And needs did, as  _not_ having a gift for Harry’s birthday would be completely unforgivable and he’d only two days to go before Harry returned to the Manor. Not even. 

Draco sighed forlornly, something he’d found he did all too often in the absence of Potter.

"Of course there isn’t an upper limit, Blaise,” he responded, staring fixedly at his lime twist. “Don’t be daft. And—er,  _why_?” he added suspiciously. “How would what I purchase for Harry concern you? I thought you and Parkinson disdained the connection?”

“Oh, we approve alright, old chap, never fear,” Blaise smirked. “He is, after all, everyone’s Saviour, even ours.”

“And?” Draco prompted, intrigued despite himself. “Or, rather, but?”

“Oh, definitely more like ‘but’, Draco,” Blaise mocked. “He’s a bloody Gryffindork, isn't he? Just as you’ve always said. Always bashing in where he wasn’t wanted, always poking his nose into other people’s business. Pansy’s Da, he’ll have no truck with your little pet Potter, you know. Hates him still.”

“Because he’d lashings of funds invested in the Dark Lord’s concerns, that’s why, Zabini,” Draco shot back. “Bloody ingrate! Old man Parkinson would've allowed Voldemort's foreign interests to take control of our economy.” Draco snorted his dislike of the idea, though of course, he, too, had tonnes of foreign investments. But that was after the fact, naturally. “Traitor to the State, he is, in more than  _one_ way. Still don’t know how he managed to keep his dastardly, conniving old arse out of Azkaban, your father-in-law.”

“Be that as it may, Draco, he acquired any number of properties whilst the Dark Lord was flouncing about, terrorizing the rest of us. Any number…” Blaise trailed off, but left a highly speculative eyebrow raised. Wincing inwardly at himself, Draco rose to the bait, knowing he’d regret it. Any scheme of Zabini’s was usually marked for failure—in fact, how many of his petty plans of revenge on Potter had originated with Zabini, back in the day? Certainly all the lesser ones, and every one of them a resounding failure.  Not that Draco’s own schemes had been much more successful. Bloody lucky little git, that Potter.

 “...Of highly desirable properties.” Blaise waited, allowing the lengthening pause to take effect on Draco’s native curiosity. “Choice, may I say?”

“Well?” Draco demanded impatiently, after a minute had ticked away. “Spit it out, whatever it is you’ve up your sleeve, Zabini. Time’s a’wasting. I have things to do yet.”

“Well…there’s this property, you understand, in Wales,” Blaise replied. He took a meditative sip of his alcoholic concoction and swallowed slowly, well aware of Draco twitching in aggravated annoyance at his side. “It’s a rather nice lot of acreage, altogether. House is in very poor shape, but well-situated. Could be brought up to speed--with a little elbow polish--in next to no time.”

“Yes?” Draco prompted shortly. “This property comes into the picture how, Blaise?”

“It was the Potter’s manorial plot. That’s how, my dear skeptic. And it can be yours, mate, for a certain price,” Blaise smirked, a mighty smirk that practically advertised all qualities considered Slytherin. “As I happen to hold the deed.”

Draco concealed his utter astonishment ably.

“Indeed.”

“Indeed,” Blaise smiled, toasting Draco politely. “Very much so.”

“Alright, that’s all of it,” Harry announced to the empty attic. The harpsichord had been stuffed back into its tiny pasteboard cubicle; the crates of itty bitty dusty boxes were stacking neatly for the Transport Spell that would convey them to the Manor. Kreacher had been briefed to consult with the Manor house elves and find a suitable storage space until such a time that Harry would have the opportunity to go through the contents of an entire estate. “And I’ve not forgotten anything either—I hope.”

An entire house! He owned an entire house! Well...the contents of one, anyway. Granted, too, all of it had been reduced to five mid-sized cartons of very much smaller pasteboard and Spellotaped cubes, and every one of those pre-Shrunken to the smallest possible parameter and filled to the brim with his very own history! His family’shistory.

His  _grandparents_. His Wizarding grandparents! Harry hugged the idea to himself in an excess of excitement. The thought of it was absolutely breathtaking. He’d never imagined that there existed still such a huge chunk of past with his name and blood imprinted upon it—and all due to his Muggle forebears and their unswerving fondness for a rapscallion magical son-in-law!

It was bloody miracle, this. As his baby things had been; as his parent’s school memorabilia had been. He drew a happy breath just thinking of it!. And then blew it out, cheeks puffing, feeling all at once horribly disappointed.

There was still no room to take all of it out and examine each and every precious item, even at the Manor, no matter how very spacious that monumental assortment of architecture was. Chock a’block with ages-old antiques and bric-a-brac (even after the Aurors had been through, cleaning up Voldemort’s detritus), it was crammed to the absolute gills with Malfoy family heirlooms. Harry winced and then found himself chuckling reluctantly, imagining the portrait’s horrified reactions should he blithely intersperse plebian Potternalia amongst the Malfoy’s prized—and terribly pricy—worldly possessions. Anarchy would arise! Spontaneous poltergeists would attack his precious musical instruments--he'd glimpsed a tiny cello in one packet, too—and no doubt Draco would take it upon himself to sneer at such an accumulation of middle-class gentrification. The bedroom set, for example, made of sturdy oak and carved with rampant lions and blithely cavorting fauns. The Potter's 'best' china, embellished with cottage roses, the teapot still warm to his touch, after all those years spent gathering dust. All of it ever so lovely and dear to Harry, but without a doubt naught but a paltry and deadly dull collection to a man accustomed to the finer things in life.

Oh, the quality was excellent, certainly, but the Potters hadn’t ever been as wealthy as the rarified and uppercrust Malfoys, and their possessions reflected that, from what little Harry had had a chance to Engorgio and examine. Draco  _would_  sneer, and it was to be expected, wasn't it? Harry, no matter how refined Draco professed him to be now, after years of constant exposure to the Malfoy way of life, had always been a confirmed common-garden type in Draco's Pureblood view, what with his springing up like a mushroom from dubiously workaday farming antecedents and middling-class Muggles. This unexpected windfall of his would only confirm it.

“Bugger him, then!” Harry testily informed the floating dust motes and the ancient Muggle Christmas lights, the sprung chair rungs and Dudder’s boxes of damaged childhood playthings, all beaten into pathetic submission ages ago. The coming and likely inevitable argument over which few Potter possessions Harry would be allowed to have on display at the Manor by his long-time and admittedly snooty bedmate raised Harry's ready hackles well in advance. He loved the twat, of course, but Merlin! Draco could be damnably difficult!   
  
“I won’t let him get to me," Harry muttered darkly, growling just a bit at the Dursley's shoddy suitcases, lying mouldy and forgotten in a corner. He gathered a little more steam to his ire, and waved his wand at them in a petty temper, as if to consign them to Hades on a whim. "Overbred arsehole he is—always  _so_  high in the instep. Bloody well trips over his own frigging pedigree, the berk! Well, he’ll just have to fucking lump it, won't he?  _I_ live there, too! And I'm bringing it all with me! It's mine, damn it!”

Harry had his wand extended, ready to spell the lot of Potter household items off to the Manor for Kreacher and the other elves to receive and subsequently deal with, when he heard a creak of protesting wood and a familiar deep voice.  

“Who’re you talking to, Harry?” His cousin had popped his head up the attic stairwell and was staring at Harry askance. “There’s no one else up here, is there?” he asked curiously, peering into the dim, murky reaches, suspicious still of people born with the native ability to Apparate anywhere, anytime. Poor old Dudley wasn’t as horridly uncomfortable as his close-minded father had been with Magick, but it did frighten him, rather, even as he admitted to the overall usefulness of it. “Has your chap stopped in, Harry?”

“No, Dudders,” Harry sighed, dropping his arm. ‘His chap’ hadn’t, and Harry was rather regretful of that. Snob or not, he could’ve used Draco’s familiar sneering presence at his side these last few days, if only to offset Aunt Petunia's weird clinginess. “I wish.”

“Well, Mum’s asleep still. D’you want some lunch?”

Harry slumped his shoulders. His gut, sensing luncheon in the offing, rumbled appreciatively. “Suppose I am hungry, rather. What did Kreacher make for us today?”

“Curry—and he didn’t make it;  _I_ did.” Duddikins preened.

“Er—excuse me?”

“Can cook, cuz,” Dudley admonished him. “Have to eat, you know. Bachelor, till my Millie happened along and took pity. Come down and wash up, will you? Table’s set.”

“Ah—er, right!” Harry, not quite knowing how else to take this revelation—these last two days had been overfull of revelations, it seemed—smiled brightly. “Right! Just coming, Duds! Give me half a tick, alright?”

“And, er, invite your bloke along, too, if you want,” Dudley called back over his beefy shoulder, already three-quarters the way down the flimsy steps. “There’s more than enough.”

“Yeah, um—thanks,” Harry faltered. Draco would no more willingly sit down to a meal with the Dursleys than pigs would fly. No, pigs would fly sooner: Draco would Charm them! “Um...I don’t think so, Dudders. He's likely busy, now. But thanks for thinking of him, anyway.”   
  
"Up to you, cuz," Dudley called back cheerily, and disappeared down the second level hallway. Harry gulped nervously, and pinched the wrinkle of confusion he was developing, right between his gathered eyebrows. It grew more pronounced with every single small kindness Dudders and Aunt Petunia paid him, and was always accompanied by the beginnings of sick headache.  

Oh, how he did wish Draco was here at the Dursley's--right now, right this very moment. A dose of that familiar acerbic wit of his wouldn’t come at all amiss in this unexpected ocean of mushy-gushy blood-related bonding, but, to be brutal, Little Whingeing wasn’t exactly Draco’s accustomed milieu. Harry really was more likely to witness winged porcines than a Malfoy chowing down companionably on a hearty bowl of homemade curry with a Dursley. 

z

“ _How_ many Galleons?” Draco gasped. He nearly dropped his fragile stemware, but managed to exert enough control over his shock-numbed fingers to keep it from sloshing more than a quarter-inch. “Are you fucking  _joking_  me, Zabini? That’s a bleeding fortune!”

“But it’s your Potter, Draco,” Blaise smirked. “I do believe no price was too high to pay for his happiness, what?”

“I hate you!” This said vehemently. Draco slammed his dregs of martini back and motioned for the barkeep. “Absolutely, beyond doubt, despise the very  _existence_  of you, Zabini! A pox on you!”

“Come now, you can afford it,” Blaise returned, disregarding Draco's idle threats to his life. “A merest dip in the bottomless well for you, Draco. Everyone knows you’re fucking rolling.”

“Bastard!”

“There is that, darling, but I wouldn't bruit it about, if you know what's best for you. I do believe Mother was married at the time. To  _someone_.”

z

“Er, it’s good,” Harry admitted, waving a hand at his lolling tongue. “Really excellent _,_  Dud. What goes in it?”

“Oh, thanks!” Dudley grinned. He ladled out another enormous helping for Harry, unasked. “Potatoes, of course. That mix in the one packet at that Indian grocery—two of ‘em, as I like it hot, see? Er—some meat,minced. Whatever’s on bargain table at Morgan’s--and onions and carrots—citron and pitted dried currants, all that. The usual lot.”

“Really brill, I tell you—no lie!” Harry gulped down water first, and then half the lager Dudders had thoughtfully poured for the two of them, but Merlin, the unabated burn and endorphin rush was exactly what he required at the moment, to offset shock.  “I’ll want to have that recipe, Dudders,” he gasped when he was able, his tongue still pleasantly afire. “if I may. Draco will be wanting to want to taste this.”

“Surely, cuz,” Dudley agreed. "Fond of the host stuff, is he?" Harry could’ve sworn he was flushing with pleasure, ever so faintly. Hard to tell: his cuz was always red-faced. “No trouble at all. I’ll jot it down for you later, alright?”

Harry nodded jerkily and gobbled another mouthful, needing additional 'happy' chemistry at the moment to offset the insidiously creeping feeling of unreality. Dudders sharing recipes with him like a blowsy housewife! Aunt Petunia patting him on the hand, with ill-disguised affection!

Merlin in Avalon! But he  _wanted_  Draco here so very much, and a welcome bath of his aritoscratic sarcasm and outright insult; all this ‘Happy Famblies’ rot was effing terrifying!

z

“Fine, fine, if I absolutely must,” Draco grumbled. “But not a sickle more, Blaise, and it’s still fucking highway robbery you're committing, you sot.”

“Brilliant!” Blaise smiled. “Deal, then. I’ll send an Owl straight off to Gringott’s; have them conduct the transfer between vaults, shall I? If you’ll just sign here--” He waved his wand, cleverly disguised as an ivory toothpick, and the mahogany surface of the bar glittered as a parchment contract shimmering into existence between them. A coaster quietly Transfigured itself into an inked quill, just as neatly.

“Not here!” Draco hisses, glancing ‘round him. “For Salazar's sake, not  _here_! Are you frigging mental, Blaise?”

“Of course, here. No time like the present—for presents,” Blaise was in an alarmingly excellent mood. “For your precious Potter, that is. Is there, Draco?”

Draco dropped his head to his hands, uncaring that his hair was being sullied by the leftover condensation from his fourth Muggle martini. Surely that was to blame for this sudden fancy, buying the old Potter place, lock, stock and barrel, sight unseen. Too, it explained his sudden attack of masochism, drinking with Zabini in the first place. 

“Have I mentioned that I hate you, Blaise?” he inquired wearily, raising his head to glare stoically at his old dorm mate. “With an undying and fervent passion, reserved only for the direst fucking enemies to the entire Wizarding world?”

“You may have, but I've learnt to disregard that crap, mate,” Blaise replied airily, and summoned the barkeep with a charming smile and a twitch of a tweezed eyebrow. He leant forward, and Draco watched the poor man—a Muggle bloke, likely straight as a plank and happily married with the regulation three mewling brats—salivate and accordingly leap to do Zabini’s bidding.

“Another round, ducks, for me and my mate here," Zabini requested. "You must congratulate us by pouring us doubles. We’ve just sealed a most marvelous deal.”

 z

Still irked, quite dehydrated and somewhat inebriated yet at quarter past two in the morning, Draco blamed Potter for his rapidly growing dependence on solo wanking. He blamed Potter for most things that had to do with personal weaknesses, but this was one was especially appropriate. Wanking with Potter watching was a whole different proposition; then it was sexy and exhilerating. Wanking by himself was just lonely. He’d grown far too used to Potter pressed up against him all night, every night, stealing his pillows, his covers, his breath. He relied on having Potter atop him or beneath him: Harry’s little half-swallowed moans, the taste of his come and his skin, damp with perspiration—the drugging sweet abyss of his mouth. Potter’s tongue and Potter’s—oh, Merlin hang it--Harry’s; oh,  _Harry’s_  arse, and his fingers and arms and shoulders and throat, too.

If he'd Harry with him, the quavery feeling floating about his unhappy gut would dissipate. If he’d Harry next to him, he wouldn’t be faced with losing sleep over a snap decision.

If he’d Harry, then wanking would be an option, and not a bloody necessity.

Draco finished himself off with a dispirited grunt and jerk, and rolled over on his side, briskly spelling away the mess. It was alright, wanking, and he could make do, he supposed, for just the four days, but it had been a very long time since they’d been separated for a stretch even as much as four days. He wondered what he’d been thinking in the first place, to allow Harry to go off to Surrey without him like that.

It didn’t matter in the slightest that Harry’s bloody aunt Pruneface didn’t approve of him—he didn’t approve of  _her_ , the ruddy old bitch. She typified any number of expletives that well-brought up gentlemen didn’t employ in public, but in private, he could rail all he liked about her, and for ages on end Harry had joined in—or at least, hadn’t minded Draco’s ever-flowing stream of vitriol. But these last few years, ever since Millie Bulstrode had somehow blundered into the lives of the remaining Dursleys, it had been markedly different. Suddenly, Harry was all about ‘getting along’ with the fucking abusive Muggles and ‘making it up’ with them, pestered, no doubt, by Millie, who'd an acknowledge 'thing' for family ties. Not that Draco didn't, of course, being the scion of a very old familiy indeed. Family was all, and blood did tell out, but still...

It rankled, it did. He’d the devil’s own time, Draco had, extricating Harry’s baby things from the old biddy’s clutches. Had to force her to hand them over, and it hadn’t been pleasant. That was ages ago; these days, all was effing sweetness and light with the blasted Muggles, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. How Harry could stand it, visiting them, Draco couldn’t fathom—but it was what Harry wanted—now, currently, at this very moment--and Draco supposed he could empathize.

He supposed. Be a bit hypocritical to forbid it, given his own history. Harry was no fool, even if he had middle-class sensibilities bred into his very elegant bones.

Be that as it may, it was still vaguely disappointing, wanking all by himself in a darkened room—a room devoid of any breathing but his own. Not satisfying at all. But at least he'd Harry’s birthday present accomplished, and he'd have Harry to himself again in just twenty-four more hours—less, now. Twelve, at the outside.

Gods, Draco swore silently, staring at his canopy. He hoped he hadn’t just thrown away a fortune on fool’s gold. Zabini had better not have screwed with him over the old Potter estate or there'd be hell to pay. 

z

By noon, No. 4 Privet Drive was ready to be packed by the hovering Muggle movers. Aunt Petunia was perched nervously on the sofa, a scrawny crow waiting to be shooed from her accustomed roosting, and Dudley was occupied with heaving a few cartons of his less mangled childhood memorabilia into the boot of his estate wagon. “For the baby, later,” he’d told Harry, out of the side of his mouth. "You know," he winked. The accompanying nudge nearly knocked Harry off his feet. 

“Baby?” Harry had shrieked, sotto voce. He leant against the railing, suddenly breathless all over again. 

“Hsst!" Dudders was all Spy Vs. Spy, suddenly. "Don’t tell Mum, will you? We want to tell her together, Millie and me, after we get her installed. Buck up her spirits a bit. The move and all. You know, cuz.”

Dudders had butted an upper arm into Harry’s shoulder a second time—leaving it tender and likely bruised—and grinned like a banshee. 

Harry chuckled his understanding and mimed zipping his lips, and felt weirdly included in something that felt like a…like a family. The emotion was good one, whatever one might label it, and it rather obscured the faint anxiety he’d woken up with, which revolved around Draco’s reaction to five cartons of smaller dusty cubes appearing in some spare room somewhere, likely in the largely unused North wing of the Manor. Nothing got past Draco, not in his own home at least, so he’d likely have some explaining to do when he Apparated in later.

The estate agent appeared promptly. Papers were shuffled; signed; toted off. A 'For Sale' sign was planted in the neatly trimmed yard. Lunch was consumed, also promptly. Harry’s aunt was just in the final stages of dabbing at tears with a tiny, lace-edged hanky and Dudley was hovering, anxious to sweep her off to the motorways.

Harry was just about to turn sharply on his heel into an Apparate, having taken a polite leave of his recuperating aunt and his cousin, when a familiar blond Wizard popped up in the front hallway of No. 4—for only the second time in all the years Harry’d known him.

“Draco?”  

z

“Harry!”

“Urrgh!” Harry groaned, inwardly cursing his lover’s timing. “Why ever now, Draco? I was just this moment about to—“

“Mrs. Dursley, Dursley, I won’t say it’s my pleasure but—a good day to you both.  _No_ , you arse,” Draco interupted him, nodding to Petunia and Dudley stiffly as they came to the entrance, curious, but his attention was instantly returned to Harry’s gaping face.  He grabbed at Harry’s elbow. “That’s not it—look, just  _come_. You have to see this, Harry. Now, please.”

“See what?” Harry demanded, completely asea. “What’re you talking about, Draco?”

“Your family’s place, Potter—now, just come, will you?” He had Harry’s arm in a death grip, and tugged him off-balance, latching onto his waist. “I’ve just now returned and it’s freaking marvelous, Harry. You  _need_  to see—come with!”

“Wait just a fu—“

“No time, Potter. Good day, Dursleys. Hold tight!”

“--king second, Malfoy!” Harry glared about him, taking in a hedgerow, a series of peaceful green fields and stiles, a grove of trees in the near distance. The buzz of pollen-laden bees, the buzz of a faraway delivery lorry trundling along. Everything was green, green, green as far as Harry’s eyes could see. And silvey-grey, where an afernoon heat haze had settled.

“What?”

“Over there,” Draco stuck out a long arm, the one that wasn’t still wrapped about Harry’s mid-section, and pointed. “See? The stone house? That’s yours, Harry.”

“Eh?”

“That’s your  _house_ , Harry. The Potter’s house. Three days with the Muggle contingent leave you deaf or something, Harry?”

“I don’t understand,” Harry managed, and squinted against the flood of sunshine to make out this house Draco was going on about. “That one?”

“Yes, that one, dolt,” Draco agreed, with a great air of self-satisfaction, as if he’d built it, by hand, stone over crumbling stone. “That one right there. And by your actual birthday, Harry, it’ll be completely fixed up. Habitable, even. We’ll be able to furnish it right away, as well—which reminds me, Harry, there’s this pallet of—“

“Oh, er,” Harry blushed. “You saw them, then.”

“Hmmm, I did, Harry,” Draco smiled. “And I must say, that  _was_ a fortuitous coincidence, that. Serendipity, Harry. Fate smiling.”

“I’m still confused, Draco.” Harry stared up his taller companion, and the confessed puzzlement was easily read. “You say this is mine now—this house?”

“Yes, all yours, Harry. D’you like it?”

“You bought it?”

“Indeed I did, and from that damnable idiot Zabini, and do remind me to cancel my subscription to White’s, please. I don’t wish to chance running into him again—not without prior notice, at least.”

“Um. You bought me a house—my house, Draco? For my birthday?”

“Indeed I did, Harry. Yes. Is this not clear?”

“Oh.” Harry blinked. There was a great deal of information rushing towards his head at the moment, circling it and divebombing it like bloody peregrines on a wounded pigeon, but the thing that sunk in—the really important thing—was that Draco had found him the absolute perfect place for all his lovely new family heirlooms.

But Harry didn’t have the chance to say as much, no.

Draco whipped his head round; in fact, he wheeled his entire body in a flurry of flapping robes and expensive cologne, and gathered Harry up even more firmly by the waist and shoulder. “Merlin!” he growled. “What the fuck am I thinking?” he demanded rhetorically of no one in particular, and then set his open lips to Harry’s just parted ones, where another question shyly trembled, on the verge of being asked. And Harry's face was instantly being eaten  _alive_.

“I  _missed_  you.”

By a very familiar beast, who acknowledged no limits; who had no boundaries drawn when it came to the fine art of summoning up all the small shards of  _wish-want-miss you_  jostling within Harry and making them smooth and fluid again.  _I'm here_ , Draco’s tongue said, gouging deep, winnowing out the hollows of Harry’s cheeks, the tender patch beneath his tongue, the tickly furrows on the roof of his mouth.  _Right here._  Harry took a breath—a truncated one, cut off by the sheer presence of this great huge rampaging animal, this serpent who stole the air from his struggling lungs almost before it hit his trachea—and who then kindly breathed it back again: shared and warm, fragrant with a miscellany of stray tastes and the overwhelming flavour of Draco—of love—of ‘I missed you so much I could die; don’t leave me again, ever!’

“Oh, gods, Draco! Me, too!”

Harry gave back—no, took back, throwing himself into the snog body and soul, twining his entire body against his lover’s sturdy frame; Draco’s long, lithe bones, his heat and his heartbeat, accelerating. Drowned himself in Draco, deliberately, as surcease from the cold of not-quite-belonging, and reveled in all that Draco forced back upon him, bestowed upon him, enveloped him with and wrapped his whole, needful self within. Tangled tongues were the least of it, though the instrumentation of flight: it was skin upon slick skin moving, organ to organ, the fluids of one passing to another, and given back again, endlessly cycling. All the sex act distilled into one fervent kiss; all the ‘I have no words enough to say how I want this—how I want  _you_ ’ passed back and forth over the straight edge of teeth and the spongy flesh of gums.

“Me, too.”

He clung as hard to Draco as Draco gripped him, and not the Grim Reaper could’ve pried them apart at that moment—nor any other man, woman or child render them asunder. They were one, united, and it took but a simple kiss to affirm it.

Harry sighed when he was allowed to aspirate normally again—though it was by no means ‘normal’ yet, as he was panting. As was Draco, who trembled with faint ague, still pressing kisses across the ruffled mass of Harry’s hair, not yet back to his usual sharp-angled self, but getting there, getting there. Restored to equilibrium, as Harry was.

“I couldn’t wait,” Draco remarked, after a bit, and Harry opened the eyes he’d closed, for it was all the clearer, Draco’s heartbeat, his distinctive odour that spoke of ‘safe’, when he wasn’t distracted by a brilliant outpouring of sun and green, growing things and the distant whinge of man-made machinery. “I wanted to show you. Are you disappointed?”

“…No,” Harry smiled, the secretive purse of his lips against Draco’s chest just another kiss given among many. “No, not at all. Why would I be, when you know what I need before I do?”

“Mmm,” Draco’s ribs rumbled with a subterranean chuckle. “True. I  _am_  uncommonly prescient about Potters, it seems. One of them, at least.”  Harry’s mop earned another scattering of kisses. “Mine.”

Harry hugged him—hard, about the waist—and twined his fingers together, lacing them into a knot that only he could chose to release. He nodded sharply, vehemently, jabbing Draco’s breastbone with his chin, and pressed his nose tight, wedging it into the handy crevice of an armpit. Squeezed Draco with all his might, delighting when Draco grunted at the pressure, and laughed aloud, his mirth pealing across the meadow.

 _His_  meadow, apparently. Of all the damndest things—he now had a meadow of his very own.

 He was bloody  _somewhere_ —known only to an irrepressible Draco Malfoy—staring at a random tumbled down pile of deep grey granite and stained mortar, and he’d just learned he was to be an honorary ‘uncle’—and too, he’d just been handed back his family on a silver platter, purely on a whim of the Fates, Aunt Petunia and this great idiot he had fast in his arms.

He’d a harpsichord of his very own, and his Grandmother Potter’s beloved tea service, too.

“Oh, yes, I have to tell you,” Harry began—there was so much that had happened--and his companion nodded willingly and listened intently, curving his neck down and peering at Harry so as not to miss a single word and, ‘neath the sound of their voices, Harry was vaguely aware of the tentative tendrils of ‘home’ twining up his ankles from the soil of the newly rediscovered Potter freehold, snug and firm within him, a steady compass—a trellis to his vine. He was vaguely aware of his own voice, blathering on, and Draco’s deep one, intermingling, blending together with the sounds of the bees and the lorry and the green things growing.

z

Draco was terribly chuffed to have Harry all to himself again, at last. The Dursley’s left him coldly furious—forgiveness of their past crimes was not on—and his hand ached a bit from recent unaccustomed activity. He’d spent the best part of four days feeling out of sorts, in an uncooperative, dull world, and life had fallen sadly flat without Harry there to…er,  _be_.   

Draco would be the first to admit he’d grown spoilt, likely, these last twelve years. But then, he deserved Harry’s attention, did he not? Had earned it, blast it, and thus fretted when it wasn’t trained on him like a spotlight—oh, call him spoilt, then, but here was Harry again, thanks to his own initiative, and he’d so much built up he needed to get off his chest:

“I’ve been to Diagon, Harry, just yesterday, and Krum’s got another ghastly expensive model out, the blighter—what a rip-off---oh, and I stepped over to the Muggle side, as well, and you’ll never guess whom I ran into at my club—Blaise Zabini, of all people!“ Draco burst out, and it was as if a dam crumbled within his throat and he was able to speak freely again. It all gushed out, madly, after days of feeling bloody muted, because the  _right_ ears were finally tuned in to his channel, and the  _proper_  face was turned up to his likely stupidly-fond one, bright and inquiring, and….was it not purely wonderful that his Harry should have finally some decent shite to call his own—for passing on to the next generation, naturally—and to furnish his new-old Potter family manor with—and. Order had been restored in the world. Draco’s days were once again in balance.

_And._

This was  _by no means_ the end of Draco’s gifting to Harry, but only just the beginning.

 

 _You are the land. The land is you.  
_ \--Merlin


End file.
